Tomione Collection
by maripaz6
Summary: A series of Tomione ficlets and drabbles ranging from serious to stilly to angsty to romantic. Updates on Tuesdays. #TomioneTuesday!
1. No Entry

**House.** Slytherin

 **Category.** Drabble

 **Prompt.** [Object] No entry sign

 **Word Count.** 497

 **A/N.** Rather blatant AU, but go with it. Written for Tomione Day 2018 :)

oO0Oo

A sign hung over the back of Borgin and Burkes, stating the back room was for employees only; however, Hermione Granger wasn't one to follow the rules. Not anymore. After casting a surreptitious glance around her, she pushed open the door. It swung open on silent hinges, and she ghosted into the room, fingering her wand, knowing exactly what she would find. After all, she had watched the store for nearly a month.

"Who's there?" At the sound of his voice, she gripped her wand even tighter. "This room is for employees only," he said, raking a cold gaze over her.

"Oh, my apologies, I was searching for the toilet."

His eyes narrowed. "You didn't see the sign?"

"I must have missed it on the way in," she said, and she began to back away from him. She had forgotten how powerful he was — she could feel the strong, steady thrum of his magic, and it was bloody terrifying. Although she'd ripped time and space to reach his side, she didn't know if she could do it. She must have been insane to dream of assassinating the budding Dark Lord.

But of course, with Bellatrix torturing her every day for the past three years, that was always a possibility.

Keeping her gaze firmly trained on the ground, she said, "I'll be on my way."

"Wait." He grabbed her wrist, and she almost shuddered at his touch.

"What?" she snapped, wanting to snatch her hand back but not trusting his reaction.

He scowled, just briefly, before snapping a polite, concerned mask back into place. "I ought to direct you to the toilets," he said. "After all, there are dangerous items in these back rooms."

Hermione evaded his gaze, although she did give a minute frown. Of all the items in Borgin and Burkes, she was certain that he, the budding Dark Lord, was the most dangerous. She pursed her lips. "No, thank you. I can find my own way."

He raised an eyebrow. "I insist."

With a quiet sigh, she took his arm and let him escort her to the filthy and frankly disgusting toilets of Borgin and Burkes. As he bid her goodbye, she finally let herself look at him, and was surprised by what she found. He was a far cry from Lord Voldemort — instead, he looked just as he had in the newspaper clippings: tall and unbearably handsome, with curly hair, chiseled features, and dark eyes one could drown in.

In that moment, another plan began forming in her mind, one that involved not killing the Dark Lord, but making herself… _useful_ to him.

She licked her lips nervously as she watched him walk away. When he'd disappeared from sight, she went in and used the toilet.

While washing up, she smirked.

Bellatrix had definitely knocked something loose. She must be insane to even contemplate such a plan, but then again, she just might succeed... and when she did, revenge would be ever so sweet.


	2. Helena Geiger (pt 1)

_**A/N.** I know I said these would all be stand-alone, but this is best in two parts. I'll be posting Chapter 2 next week. Now, without further ado..._

 **CHAPTER ONE. The Chamber.**

After years of searching, he'd finally found it. The Chamber of Secrets. Two doors loomed before him, engraved with silver snakes which seemed to wink at him as their emerald eyes glinted in the feeble light of his _lumos._

 _Open_ , Tom hissed, and with a groan the two doors swung open. In the gloom, Salazar's monstrous statue towered above him, and Tom strode towards it, fully cognizant that he was the first Heir to find the Chamber in aeons.

But his pride made him careless. He failed to notice the figure in the shadows until it unleashed a barrage of offensive spells at him. _Stupefy! Expelliarmus!_ it cried as it raced toward him, the soft glow of his _lumos_ coming to reveal a bloody, battered, bushy-haired young woman. _Stupefy! Diffindo! Stupefy! Bombarda Maxima!_

Caught by surprise, Tom barely blocked the spells with his own wordless _Protego_. Then his eyes narrowed. There was someone else in the Chamber. Someone who, judging by the slur written on her forearm, did not belong. She would be dealt with immediately. His wand became a blur as he cast spell after spell; although she managed to either dodge or block most of his curses, one grazed her midriff and she fell to the ground, coughing up deep, dark blood.

Tom wordlessly _accioed_ her wand. Then, he stalked toward her. When he was standing over her, he asked, his voice low, "Who are you?"

She glared up at him with dark, coffee-coloured eyes; then, with as much dignity as she could apparently muster, she pulled herself to the sitting position. Tom noted her robes were already crusted with dried blood and her every breath was deep and shuddering; however, he wasted no pity on the Mudblood. "Who are you?" he pressed. "And how did you enter the Chamber?"

She laughed at that, a weak, broken sound, which almost sounded like a sob. "The Chamber…" she murmured, so low that Tom almost didn't hear her.

Tom growled. "Answer the question, mudblood."

At that, her expression darkened. Her eyes narrowed, she slowly and deliberately leant over and spat blood over his robes. "Do. Not. Call. Me. Mudblood."

Tom laughed derisively. "It is written on your arm, you filth. I'd kill you now, but first… _how did you get into the Chamber_."

Her only response was stony silence, and so Tom sighed. "Perhaps pain shall loosen your tongue. _Crucio_."

The rush of pleasure that Tom usually received from the unforgivable was dulled, though, as he watched her writhe, screaming and screeching; for some reason, the sight turned his stomach. Finally, tired of watching, Tom lifted the curse, and she collapsed on the cold stone floor.

"Who are you," he said again, his voice pitiless as the night, "and how did muggle filth get into the Chamber?"

She twitched. "Please— not that curse— not again— I— I can't— I don't—"

" _Crucio_ ," Tom said lazily, not even waiting for her to finish.

Her shrieks echoed through the Chamber — and then, suddenly, they stopped. And he hadn't even lifted the curse. She began to cackle as she staggered to her feet, a maniacal gleam in her eye. "Oh Tom," she sneered, still twitching from his _Crucio_ , "You'll see just how much of a witch I truly am."

In a flash she'd knocked him to the ground, and then she had her wand in her hand again and she was casting basic hexes and NEWT level spells and Dark, Dark curses that Tom vaguely remembered reading about in Magicke Moste Evile.

Only a witch with access to a proper, pureblood library would know those curses. He lunged to the side, evading the bulk of her attacks, only taking a Bat-Bogey hex to the stomach.

Bats flapping around him, Tom sent a swift array of curses at her, curses which would have left any follower of his crumpled on the ground and mutilated beyond recognition. Then, just to be safe, he threw up a glittering shield between him and her next assault.

And he was glad he did. For from the darkness came the mudblood witch, bloodied and battered, yet still unbroken. She ran full-tilt at him, her dark eyes wild and her bushy brown hair streaming behind her — and then she cut through his shield like a hot knife through butter and she was before him, her wand digging into his throat.

"Wha— What do you want?" he choked out, gasping for air.

She made no reply, though she summoned his wand from him. Then, apparently satisfied, she released him and Tom collapsed into an ignominious heap at her feet.

He scowled up at her, rubbed his throat, then he got to his feet. Pleased to note he towered over her, he growled, "Give me my wand back."

She laughed at that, a light, tinkling laugh, her dark, chocolate-coloured eyes blazing with an unsettling intensity. "If you think for one second that I'm going to back down, Tom Marvolo Riddle, you are sorely mistaken." She spun his wand between her fingers. "13 ½ inches, yew with a phoenix feather core."

He glared at her, then lunged forward in a desperate attempt to take his wand back from her. She danced out of his way, though, chuckling. "Tom, Tom, what terrible manners you have— before we kill each other, oughtn't we have some tea first?"

He scowled at her. "Tea?" he spat, as if the word were poison.

"Yes, tea," she replied, a mocking lilt to her voice. "In my country, we have a civilized cuppa before we try to kill one another. But I understand you were raised in an orphanage—"

Tom froze. "I see," he said in a clipped voice. "Let us have our _tea_. But tell me, Miss…"

She let there be silence. "Geiger," she finally supplied with a saccharine, insincere smile. "But call me Helena."

"Miss Geiger," he said, stressing her last name, "How will we get food? It is impossible—"

"Yes, yes, the Gamp's Law of Elemental Transfiguration," she said dismissively. "But conversation is food for the soul, Tom."

Tom felt his jaw clench. "What do you want with me," he snapped, "And how did you get in here?"

"Magic, Tom," she laughed, her dark, intelligent eyes sparkling. "Time magic."

Against his will, his curiosity was piqued. A mudblood witch his age, dabbling in time magic. What a fascinating contradiction. If he concentrated, he could feel her magic thrumming through her slender frame, filling the Chamber with its intoxicating power.

No. She was a mudblood. She was beneath him, the last of Salazar's descendents. She was mere dirt beneath his feet… and yet Tom still felt grudging admiration for the witch standing across from him, who regarded him with a cool, if slightly crazed gaze, both of their wands in her grip.

A mudblood, yet she easily outclassed any of his followers. A mudblood, yet she almost beat him, Slytherin's heir. Almost.

Though she may think she had won, Tom had one last trick up his sleeve. Letting his eyes drift shut, he thought of his wand, focusing on just how much he wanted it in his hand; when he opened his eyes, he fully expected to see it in his grasp.

But it wasn't. Instead, he held the mudblood witch's wand. For a brief moment he contemplated cursing her again, but something stilled his hand. She could be useful. Though she was a mudblood, the magic thrumming through her far outstripped that of any of the purebloods knaves he'd 'acquired'. With her by his side, he could easily remake the world. The thought was quite alluring; she would be rather pretty if she weren't caked in dirt and dried blood. Mind made up, Tom extended her wand and said as smoothly as he could manage, "Shall we return each other's wands?"

She scoffed at the suggestion. "As if I'd give you another chance," she retorted, her grip tightening around his wand. "You're rotten to the core, Riddle."

"No, I am not," he replied, his voice calm. "I am practical, and that makes all the difference."

She chuckled at that, her dark eyes dancing. "I could come to like you, Tom, even if you do become Lord Voldemort."

At the mention of his alias, he stilled. This witch was becoming more fascinating by the minute. How much did she know? He held out her wand to her, saying, "You have changed my wand's allegiance, Helena, and I yours. I could not hurt you even if I wanted to. And I do not."

She smiled at his words, then plucked her wand from his grasp. When she returned his own wand to him, her fingertips brushed against his palm, and Tom could have sworn sparks flew between them. It was electrifying.

Apparently, she felt the same, for she jumped back, fear in her eyes. "Stay away from me," she warned in a tight, controlled voice, fingering her wand. "Just— just stay back."

Tom had every intention of doing so, so unsettled was he by his magic's strange response to her, but then she began to sway from side to side. At first it was only a slight motion, but when her eyes drifted shut and she began to fall to the cold stone floor, Tom found himself taking an automatic step forward and catching her in his arms. He lowered her gently to the ground, still holding her slight weight in his arms. This witch was thin, almost insubstantial. He moved to brush her bushy brown hair from her dark eyes, and then his blood ran cold.

She was disappearing. Her already pale skin was becoming more translucent, and the sharp edges of her form were beginning to blur; only her dark eyes remained fixed on him, blazing with their bright intensity. "Tom," she murmured, so softly that he almost didn't hear her. "Look for me in the future."

He nodded, his throat closing up, and then, driven by some unknown desire, he bent down to press a kiss to her forehead.

But he was too late. His lips barely brushed against her skin when she faded away completely, and Tom was left kneeling in the Chamber of Secrets clutching empty air, remembering his brief encounter with Helena Geiger, and knowing he would never meet anyone like her again.


	3. Helena Geiger (pt 2)

**CHAPTER TWO. After.**

It wasn't until years later that he saw her again; nearly five decades later, to be precise. And when he finally did see her again, he could scarcely believe his eyes. He may have only been a fragment of a soul possessing her Defense Against the Dark Arts professor, but he recognized that mane of bushy hair, even if it belonged to a first year. She was still Helena Geiger; or rather, she was Hermione Granger, the one whom the other professors lauded as the brightest witch of the age. Strangely enough, she was a Gryffindor, not a Ravenclaw, as her pernicious love of books would suggest, nor a Slytherin, as her elder self's extensive knowledge in the Dark Arts had suggested. She was only a Gryffindor first-year. Nevertheless, Voldemort resolved to keep an eye on her.

Yet that soon became impossible. She befriended Potter, and Dumbledore kept watch over the boy, and the boy's friends. He knew the Headmaster already suspected his host (for Quirinius was a terrible actor), so he kept silent. After he had stolen the Sorcerer's Stone and escaped Dumbledore's watchful gaze, he would discover just how Helena Geiger had appeared within the Chamber of Secrets back in 1943.

Yet, for all his plans and preparation, he did not steal the Stone. Instead, Potter destroyed Quirinius, and Voldemort was forced to flee.

Nevertheless, he swore to himself that he _would_ solve the conundrum that was Helena Geiger.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

Years later, he burst from a cauldron,having finally created a body of his own.

After failing to kill Potter, he strode to Malfoy. Drawing upon his memories of teaching snot-nosed brats, he said, "You have a son."

"I do, my Lord." The man fell to his knees. "He is a fourth year, he would be honored to serve."

Voldemort nodded. "Then bring me information. Investigate the mudblood Hermione Granger."

His followers did as he commanded. He learned much about Helena Geiger's muggle childhood and magical Hogwarts years: she was close to Harry Potter, had been petrified by the Basilisk, was thought to the the smartest witch of her age, and had gone to the Yule Ball with international Quidditch Star and TriWizard champion Viktor Krum. The pictures of her smiled and scowled and were so full of life that they made him feel like a faint shadow in comparison. He knew his skin was paper thin, his nose missing, and his eyes a deep blood red, but he had never cared before — but now he did. He was a monster, held together by the blackest of magicks, while she was in the flower of her youth.

He didn't know why it bothered him, but it did.

. . . . . . . . . . . . .

The following year, he invaded the Department of Mysteries. Voldemort had hoped to finally speak with Helena; however, seconds after he arrived at the Ministry, Dumbledore appeared. He wouldn't be able to reach her, not any more. He beckoned Rowle close, and instructed the man to go to the Time Room and take all the Time Turners and tomes discussing time travel. After this battle, there was research to be done.

At the order, Rowle nodded, then slipped away. Satisfied that the man would do the task set before him, Voldemort turned to face Dumbledore. The old coot may have stopped him from seeing her this time, but he _would_ see Helena — or Hermione, as she was currently called — again.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

It wasn't until after the disgraceful defeat at the Ministry that he heard Dolohov had cast to kill Helena, and that the Russian wizard had almost succeeded.

At the news, his rage burned cold. It was not until Antonin Dolohov was lying in a bloodied, whimpering mess at his feet that he calmed; even then, he remained in a foul mood. He wanted to speak to her again, and if a Death Eater murdered her first… _no one_ took what was his, even if it was an enemy mudblood. She was still younger than he remembered her being, and he knew that she did not yet have her extensive knowledge in the dark arts; she could still be killed by one of his followers. Although he _had_ heard that she'd cut an impressive figure in the Ministry of Magic dueling his Death Eaters. For a barely trained mudblood, she was incredibly powerful; of course, he had expected that. She _had_ been Helena Geiger, after all. And he wanted to meet to her, properly, this time.

. . . . . . . . . . .

The following year, when he stormed Hogwarts, he sought her out; however, it was to no avail. Wherever she was, she was far from him. He hoped she was safe — he'd given instructions for his followers to avoid her, but some were not entirely sane, and he did not wish to lose her again.

. . . . . . . . . . .

During her 7th year, he held Hogwarts. The school was his, and he waited for her to return; yet, she never did. For that matter, neither did Potter. The two were said to be on the run, hiding in the countryside. He sent his Death Eaters and Snatchers out to find them, with strict instructions of what to do it they captured either Potter or Helena, but as the days dragged on with no sign of either of them, he began to wonder if they had fled the country.

Then, one night, he felt Bella summoning him, and he knew. They had captured Potter. And if they had Potter… they had Helena. Yet, when he arrived at the Malfoy Manor, she was already apparating away, clutched on the arm of some wrinkled House Elf. He only had time to meet her fine dark eyes before she was whisked away in Side-Along apparition, but before she fully escaped the Manor's extensive wards, Voldemort cast the old, obscure spell he'd found in the tomes from the Time Room.

With luck, she'd be sent back to the day he opened the Chamber of Secrets. He hoped so, but time was a fickle friend. He could only hope; until he saw her again, he wouldn't _know_.

. . . . . . . . . . . .

He saw her again at the Battle of Hogwarts, and he could see the change in her eyes. She _knew_. The knowledge spawned strange thoughts within him, and he found himself picturing again what they could have been, what they could have been, had they been together from the beginning, not fighting one another in this accursed war.

So when it fell silent and his voice echoed throughout Hogwarts, he didn't ask for Harry Potter. Instead, he asked for Hermione Granger.

She came to him in the Forbidden Forest like a sacrificial lamb to the slaughter; however, Voldemort had no intention of _killing_ her. Outside the clearing, she paused, her eyes flickering from side to side and her hands trembling; however, he only beckoned her forwards. "Come here," he said softly. "I will not kill you."

She blinked, then strode towards him, her head held high and her eyes flashing. "What do you want, Riddle?" she snapped.

He gave her no reply. Instead, he met her eyes, then thought, _Legilimens_ , and began burrowing into her mind. There, he caught a pang of longing for a dark-haired boy with an emerald green tie. That was enough. He withdrew from her mind before she decided to evict him herself, and pulled a silver time-turner from his robes. "I saved this for you," he said. "You can go back, if you'd like. Change the world."

She looked up at him with those same dark, intelligent eyes, and Voldemort saw his pale, noseless, monstrous self reflected in her black, black pupils. At the sight, a wave of regret passed through him. With her at his side, it would have been very different. It would have _worked._

When she hesitated, he placed the time turner around her neck. "Do it for me. Please."

She looked at him, at his misshapen body, then reached up and traced her fingers along the line of his jaw. Then she nodded, like a soldier accepting her mission, and began spinning the time turner. After countless spins, she suddenly stopped, looked straight at him, and began to speak; he leaned forward to hear what she would say, but before she could say a word, time whisked her away.

He stood staring at where she'd been, then turned away with a sigh. He'd changed his past and his future; hopefully, it was for the better, not the worse.

. . . . . . . . . .

It was quiet in the Manor, and Tom was enjoying the Malfoy's extensive library. When he heard footsteps behind him, he didn't even look up from his tome. "Leave, Abraxas," he snapped.

A light, tinkling laugh sounded, one which Tom had thought he'd never hear again. "Oh Tom, and I thought you'd missed me."

Heart in his throat, he looked up. Silhouetted against the rising sun stood Helena Geiger. "Helena," he breathed, getting to his feet, his book forgotten. "Are you here to stay?"

She chuckled, her dark eyes sparkling as she fell into his arms. "Call me Hermione, Tom," she corrected him. "And yes, I'm here to stay. I'm here to stay with you forever."


	4. Fountains in the Moonlight

**House:** Slytherin

 **Year:** 4th

 **Category:** Additional

 **Requirement:** Discovering you're not who you thought you were.

 **Prompt:** [Setting] Fountains in the Moonlight

 **Word Count:** 705

oO0Oo

The fountains gurgled softly. Bathed in moonlight, the white marble cast exotic shapes and shadows which lent the entire garden a mystical ambience. Beyond the fountains grew peonies, roses, and other flowers; it was a scene fit for a fairytale, made complete by the maiden standing amidst it all.

A door squeaked. Hermione turned to find an incredibly handsome man entering the little garden. He was tall, taller than her, with dark hair, noble features, and a certain predatory grace. He was also easily recognizable from the countless hours of research she had done in Hogwarts: before her stood none other than Tom Riddle.

She swallowed. "What do you want?" she said, pleased to find that while her voice did quaver, she did not sound terrified out of wits.

"Merely to prove something," his smooth tenor answered as he kissed the palm of her hand.

"P-prove what?" This time, her voice quavered for an entirely different reason.

"Merely that you are not the woman you believe yourself to be." He straightened and smiled down at her. "Come, Miss Granger. The gardens are lovely in the moonlight."

Bemused, Hermione took the arm he offered. "What do you mean, I am not the woman I believe myself to be?"

"Well, for one thing, you are walking with me instead of trying to hex me to oblivion," he said. "You have a wand, but you aren't using it."

Hermione glanced down and was surprised to find a wand - her wand - tucked into the belt of her gown. Then she froze. She was wearing a _gown_?

Tom's rich chuckle interrupted her thoughts. "There is no need to look so dismayed."

"But- but-"

"But what? You have never owned a gown so fine?" Hermione nodded, and Tom's lips quirked up. "Hermione, a beautiful woman deserves beautiful things."

She shook her head. "I'm not pretty."

"You know you're wrong," Tom said. Plucking a peony from a nearby bush, he slid it into her hair. "You are enchanting; however, the man you have so stubbornly attached yourself to is incapable of seeing it."

Hermione pulled away from him. "I love Ron." The flower in her hair suddenly felt too heavy, and she began to pull it out of her curls.

"You think you do." Tom wove more peonies into her hair, making a crown of flowers across her brow. "But if you did… you wouldn't let me do this." He drew her close to him and began to kiss her. It was slow and sweet, and Hermione began to melt in his arms.

When he pulled back, the gurgle of the fountains seemed unnaturally loud in the silence. Hermione's cheeks were flushed and her breathing labored; worse, she found herself wanting to kiss Tom Riddle again as she had never before wanted to kiss anybody. When he ran a finger along her cheek, she trembled.

At that, he chuckled. "Look what even the least of my kisses does to you. Admit it, Hermione. You're not happy, but with me, you can be."

"But-" With difficulty, Hermione got her voice under control. "You're Tom Riddle. I'm a muggleborn."

He grinned, and for a split-second, Hermione could see hints of the madness within him, the madness that had driven him to murder and split his soul countless times. "I know," he said. "You are dirt beneath my feet, mudblood - but I didn't come to court you. I came to prove you are not the woman you believe yourself to be. You shouldn't have been swayed by Tom Riddle's looks or charms… but you were. What do you do, Hermione, when you discover what you truly are?"

Then, the world began to tremble around her, and Hermione woke to tears - whether they were of sorrow, anger, or joy, she was unsure. With a gasp, she sat up in the narrow cot and Ron, who was keeping watch, turned. "Blimey, 'Mione, are you all right?"

"I- I'm fine," Hermione managed. "Just stay away from me." Her fingers scrabbled with the locket she wore under her jumper. She yanked it off. "I'm not sleeping with this again."

But she would never forget Tom's final words: "What do you do, Hermione, when you discover what you _truly_ are?"


	5. Professor Granger

**House:** Eagles

 **Position:** Charms

 **Prompt:** Failing a test

 **Category:** drabble

 **Word count:** 698

oO0Oo

He knocked on her door. "Professor?" He knocked again. "Professor Granger?"

"Come in, Mister Riddle."

When he opened the door, he found her tying up her frizzy hair. He couldn't help but notice the dark circles under her eyes, and at the sight, he frowned. Professors ought to take better care of themselves; perhaps that would reduce lapses of judgement like the one that brought him here today. "I would like to discuss my Arithmancy exam."

"Ah, yes." Professor Granger sat down at her desk and motioned for him to do the same. "You have been failing many tests lately, Mister Riddle. I am worried about your lack of progress."

A tendon in his neck tensed. "Professor Granger, with all due respect, up until the most recent exam, my grades have left nothing to be desired. In all of my classes."

"That's not what I meant, Tom."

At her seemingly familiar use of his name, he stiffened. "Professor?" he said, emphasizing the word with a touch more politeness than was strictly necessary. "Professor Granger, if it is not my classwork, what 'lack of progress' are you referring to?"

She pulled her wand so quickly that he didn't register it until mid-incantation. Then his wand was in his hand, a spell ready on his lips — at least, until he realized she was only summoning a teapot, a pair of mugs, and a plate of gingersnaps. "Tsk tsk," she said, deftly pouring herself a cup of tea. "You're slow, you really ought to work on that. Would you like some Earl Grey?"

"Professor, I don't see what this has to do with Arithmancy," he said, allowing his annoyance to creep into his voice.

"Oh, this has _everything_ to do with Arithmancy." She passed him a plate of biscuits. "After all, what is Arithmancy?"

"Arithmancy studies the magical properties of numbers, including predicting the future with numbers and numerology," he answered as he took a biscuit. "We memorize the definition at the beginning of each term."

She nodded. "Arithmancy allows us to predict the future, while other items… other items let us to travel to the past." She leaned forward to pour him a cup of tea, and as she did, there was a glint of gold. Curious, Tom looked closer. She wore a fine gold chain with a tiny silver hourglass. Something about it demanded his complete attention and he stared, somehow knowing that this item would decide — had decided? — his future. He was vaguely aware of her speaking, but her voice seemed muffled to his ears, as though she were a great distance away. "Don't you think that, taken together, the two would be extremely powerful? I shudder to think what a capable Arithmancer could do, if she had a Time Turner."

Then she noticed his stare. "Oh, I shouldn't flaunt this," she said, tucking it back underneath her robes.

Tom swallowed, wetting his dry throat. "What— what was that?"

"It's nothing, Tom," she said with a slight smile, and again his name seemed to glide off her tongue, as though she had said it hundreds of times before. "Nothing you need to worry about quite yet."

He shook his head, shaking off the remainder of that strange fascination that had appeared when he saw her necklace. Looking her in the eyes, he thought, _Who are you_?

To his surprise, she chuckled as though she had heard his question, and it was a dark, velvety sound. "I'm Hermione Granger, Mister Riddle. Your Arithmancy professor. And you have much to learn before you're even a fraction of what I have seen you become." She paused, then looked him dead in the eye. "Lord Voldemort."

Tom stilled. How did she know— how could she know— what did she know— what was she doing here—

Then he smiled, and it was a vicious smile. "I would like to discuss my exam with you again, Professor. It seems I am failing more than I realized. Perhaps we should meet once a week."

"I think every other night would be best, Tom. I shall see you in two days' time." The smile she gave him was positively wicked. "I look forward to our partnership."


End file.
